February 17, 2009

I feel like I am crazy. I am fairly certain it's either the illness or the medication.

Earlier this week, for context:

"You've got Influenza B," Anne the nurse practitioner says as she reenters my room. My lower back spasms painfully. She reaches into the deep, white pocket of her cotton coat and brings out her prescription pad. I am not given a prescription to bring to the pharmacy. No, Anne calls my prescription in. "You're highly contagious," she says and indicates that, based on my high fever, the illness is not only alive and kicking but fighting to reproduce itself in the bodies of others. She writes instructions on that prescription pad:

- Buy Delysm
- Quarantined for two days (or until fever below 99)
- Drink plenty of fluids

I drive to the pharmacy and purchase my incredibly expensive Tamiflu prescription, alongside the oft-recreationally abused Delsym syrup, a box of tissues, two liters of water, a thermometer, a small plastic jar of Vicks Vap-O-Rub, and off-brand aspirin.

Tonight:

An attempt at a visit to the cafeteria is absolutely unimaginable to me. My body's sweat is soaking through oversized Obama '08 t-shirt. I can barely keep my eyes open as I half-watch yet another streaming episode of the incredibly repetitive medical drama House load on my computer.

But I have not eaten anything all day. So I decide, at a reasonable dinner time (an estimated 6:30 PM) to rouse myself. I stand up. I slide a pair of Levis over my shaky legs. My breathing becomes heavy. I lie down. I fall asleep, House still loading beside me. When I awake, the episode is fully loaded. A glance at my computer's clock reveals that it is 7:45 PM. I drag myself out of bed and lift my car keys from my desk. I am fatigued. I fall back onto my bed. It is 8:30 when I wake up. I pick up my cell phone and call in an order for a personal pizza from the overrated place a short drive from my dorm. I make it to my car and can hardly believe it.

At the counter in the pizza place, I can't remember what I've ordered. The girl in the visor before me requests my last name. I give her my first and pass my credit card to her.

Outside, with my small pizza box, moonlight mingles with failing streetlight on the sidewalk. I note a strange sweet smell in the air. My heart rate quickens. I fumble for my keys. They are not in my purse, I decide, as my fingers frantically climb over mascara tube, rounded birth control packet, Bic lighter, stray bobby pin, crumpled receipt, dirty poplin wallet, Pilot pen. I pat my body. There, in my jacket pocket. My ears pound as I turn my head sharply over both shoulders alternately. I am sure something is about to appear from beyond that dark row of trees. I am sure a transient is going to emerge from beneath my parked car and slash at my ankles with a switchblade. I am sure my body will be discovered three years from now in a black trash bag, wholly decomposed save tooth and bone, by hikers marching merrily through a springtime Ravine Scene overrun with red wine-scented wildflowers.

I am sure I am the next true story the TV show CSI: Las Vegas will base a show around.

I finally get my car door open and slide quickly into the driver's seat. I instinctively lock the car doors, turn the ignition, and raise the volume of the nondescript song my stereo is playing. As I attempt to shake off the strange feelings, I travel toward the Courts parking lot. I turn left from Georgia Avenue. I see a cat bolt in front of my car. I slam on my brakes. It is not a cat, I realize, but a leaf blowing across the road. I push the accelerator and enter the parking lot. I think to myself, exhausted and confused, I can't go out anymore.